Wednesday, December 20, 2006


You’ve come already. In this dark place we lie, you’ve got your pleasure now its time for mine.

I fumble through the dark for playthings, returning to the sheets prepared for self-centered fucking.

Your body spent wraps around mine, holding me tight in reality as my hands play an instrument that drives me to fantasy. Your lips suck at my neck, my ears, as the buzz starts between my legs. I don’t want you to watch me, I want your accompaniment, I want you to help orchestrate this orgasm.

Fingers dig into my soft skin, I feel you hard against my hip. You whisper into my ear. I want you to whisper what we could do, what we would do, what I fear doing. Maestro you oblige me so sweetly.

You huskily tell me how we’d walk, till we found the right stranger. How my knees would grind into the pavement as you told me to suck him. I imagine his look of surprise as with a smile I slide his zipper down. He wears black leather and denim, and he is too wary of his good fortune to question it. I unbuckle the silver buckle of his black belt, one two three four five buttons, light blue cotton boxers, pink soft hard flesh. I feel you behind me as his cock drags across my tongue.

My face hidden by my hair and his crotch, my mind distracted from the park by thrusting my mouth, licking his length, by the cunt that cries for your attention.

Yes, I’m wet, throbbing, each discomfort making it a bit more of a turn on. I like being your slut, the ownership, the degradation; I like sucking him off for you.

And we’re back on cotton sheets, my pussy clenching around this purple menace, my teeth gnashing, my back arching, as I let out the noise that only comes when I do.

You sigh into my ear, the sweat of lust cools my skin, and I sink into sleep.

(© Alice Ginsberg)

Friday, December 15, 2006


I like to look at the stat counter page. I enjoy thinking about the people who crawl into this clubhouse with me and lurk about like ghosts. I want to live in a tree house, with pink shag carpeting that never gets dirty. And a puppy who never gets lonely. And a bed with soft sheets that never need washing. If I could tell you my paradise, I think that would be close.

I realized this morning that Liz's blog has continued. I haven't read all of it. But I do miss her sense of humor. And I wish things could be like they were. But I need time, and don't know that I can trust her again. Especially considering recent actions she's taken, but I don't think it’s appropriate to go into that.

A guy wrote me. A tattooed, grungy looking fellow, who when I saw his picture made my breathing go all funny.
Its odd.
I like skinny guys, with tattoos and a love of computers.
I like tan, shiny, guys with a high school football career.
I like artsy, effeminate guys who I could beat at arm wrestling.
I love tall guys against whose strength I cannot win.
I like preppy guys, who work at hedge funds, and seem to be grown up versions of prep school crushes.

Really, I don't have a type. I am particular, I like what I like, but I can only say that I know it when I see it.

Take Salem for example, he's Jewish (not to be bigoted, but generally not my type), and a bit of a mess. But when he said that he'd sat down the cats and dog to explain that mommy wasn't coming home anymore (divorce you see), I could have made out with him right there. Later he picked up my iPod and accused me of being bipolar cause the Allman Brothers were next to Bikini Kill. His nose has been broken a couple times, he's angry, he's funny, he's unavailable, and I find him drop dead gorgeous.

Yeah, that guy, the angry, funny, unavailable one? He's my type.

(© Alice Ginsberg)